‘I know M. de la Reynie, the magistrate,’ said Marotte, ‘and he tells a different story. He says he has a clue to some of them, and will have them before long. Then there will be bonfires on the Grêve, and I shall go and see them.’
She clapped her hands with delight at the anticipated spectacle.
‘You went with me to see the last, M. de Sainte-Croix,’ continued Marotte; ‘you are too proud now.’
And she eyed the Marchioness as she spoke with no very kind expression.
‘It was the Veuve Maupas who was burned,’ she went on. ‘She petitioned to wear a mask at her execution, and they allowed her. Catherine Deshayes—La Voisin, as they call her—is suspected; but at present they can only prove that she showed M. de Beauvais the devil. She wears a mask. I would never wear one, for fear I should be taken for an empoisonneuse.’
The Marchioness almost fainted at these words of Marotte, intended to be nothing more than spiteful. She clutched closer hold to Sainte-Croix’s arm to keep from falling.
‘Pshaw! let this pass,’ said Lauzun. ‘Ha! Desgrais! Will you join this party?’
‘Hush!’ replied the person addressed; ‘not a syllable of my name, Marquis, or you will defeat my plans.’
He was a handsome man, in the dress of an abbe, and was not above thirty years old. His stature was above the middle height, and his frame muscular and well-proportioned, whilst in his eyes there was a peculiar expression of energy and sagacity. It was Desgrais, the most active exempt of the Marechaussée, in one of the disguises he was accustomed to assume with such success.
‘Have you been on any track to-night?’ asked Lauzun in a low voice.